Pomegranate seeds are sown
down the centre of the road,
equidistant flashes of red
that sparkle like gemstones
in the car’s chill headlights.
They impassively mark the distance
that’s passed between here—
another seed comes into view—
and the there of your kitchen,
where we sat on stark wood chairs
with our knees barely touching,
our hands wrapped around
slowly cooling tea served
in white cups; their glaze
delicately mapped with cracks.
